What is Red Sauce for the Goose
by RuthieGreen
Summary: Sometimes death just happens, especially in a room full of sharp/heavy objects. Just a little fluff in honour of the organizers of & in anticipation of the February MM Luncheon. William/Julia/George/Henry. Thank you Maureen Jennings & show writers for letting us play in your world & to the volunteers who create fan experiences for the rest of us! Woe betide anyone who crosses us!


" **What sort of place is** **this..** **?"**

…William said to George, who was apparently just as dumbstruck as he. William could not help how his eyes wandered in the disorienting space. The outside of the building had been innocent enough: plain brick, nondescript with a low façade, tucked up against other businesses on the Esplanade. The inside, however was a dizzying jumble of items which were apparently plucked from a defunct gypsy circus and shoved willy-nilly into a set of cavernous, connected rooms. Architectural details, stained glass, chandeliers, and family portraits were jammed together in a claustrophobic chock-a-block. Remarkably, an old street trolley and a small painted merry-go-round barred his way, poised there in the center of the room as if about to crash. It was only after closer inspection could he find the tables and chairs which made this an eating establishment and a path through the chaos.

"Italian cuisine. How exotic!" Julia's cheerful voice came up beside him. "And the ambiance is as exotic as well. So _interesting_ … I love it! William, you _must_ take me to dine here."

His wife breezed on by without taking note of the skeptical look on his face. William's immediate thought was that the food must be terrible indeed if the diner's meal needed to compete with a trash heap's worth of things festooning the walls and dangling from the ceiling. The taxidermy alone was off-putting.

George rescued him, getting focus back on the crime. " _The Pay-stah Silo_ …that is the name of this, well …the proprietor says it is a ' _ris-toe-rahn-tay.'_ Our victim is one of the diners over there in that side room." George indicated where the de-consecrated remains of a chapel served as a doorway, to where Henry was waiting.

 _At least I hope it was deconsecrated,_ William commented to himself. "I think it might be Pasta Silo, George. Pasta is the Italian word for noodle. And, please, you may call it a restaurant. Who are all these people and what sort of affair was this?" The initial shock apparently worn off, the other dining patrons clustered in small knots trying to view the proceedings. William saw dozens and dozens of people, mostly middle aged women, milling around. There was a sprinkling of men and young people mixed in with a few ancient-looking crones…

 _Rather like an average weekday church service,_ he observed rather archly.

Constable Higgins read from his notebook to both men. "Apparently, our victim was attending this luncheon, consisting of one hundred aficionados of a play called _'Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model.'_ The plot, as it was explained to me, is very melodramatic - a poor heroine who is secretly the child of a wealthy family, is the victim of a scheming relative trying to steal her inheritance. It takes the audience through a series of dramatic physical perils for her to face, tied to train tracks, tied to the mast of a yacht, has an elevator dropped on her, she is even blown off a bridge by an explosion…" Higgins looked up to summarize his long list. "I am told the heroine, Nellie, faces death 17 times during the course of each production, with the hero rescuing her at the very last moment at the finale."

Julia's disembodied voice floated over. "How ridiculous. Even Shakespeare showed some restraint. No one person could be so unlucky as that."

William's eyebrows lifted, but he wisely made no commentary.

George had plenty to say. "Oh, I have heard of this play, sir. The plot is rather far-fetched…" George paused when William gave him a mocking glare. "But it _is_ very popular. I am told patrons go again and again to see the same play. Why I have even considered turning my first novel into a theatrical performance, considering the dramatic backdrop of Egypt would lend itself well to the stage…."

William turned pointedly away from George. "But why are _these_ people _here_ , Henry?" William whispered an aside.

"These, er…patrons, like this play so much they get together and discuss it, what they like, critique the performances, which characters they find most intriguing, etcetera. Once or twice a year they get together for a luncheon at which a cast member or crew member is invited. Tickets are limited to one hundred, which for this luncheon sold out immediately."

"And the victim?"

"No one here seems to know her. The organizers tell me it is the first luncheon she has attended. I found a calling card in her bag, which identifies her as a Mrs. Edwina Smyth-Featheringstone"

"Oh my!" George exclaimed. "Not **the** Edwina Smyth-Featheringstone?" He put a hand to his mouth to stifle his excitement. "Sir! She is the foremost theatre critic in all of London, and now apparently has taken Toronto as her territory. Producers, directors, actors, costumers, make-up artists, set designers, prop-masters….Well, sir…all in the industry tremble at her by-line. She can shut down an entire Burlesque theatre or a play in fifty words or less… _on two continents!_ "

While George was clearly impressed with the victim's pedigree, William wanted to view the crime scene.

By this time, Julia was done inspecting from the floor and was getting back on her feet. William offered her a hand up and joined her next to one of the long tables which had been wedged into a semi-private dining room. It was hard to tell at first glance how much was bloody gore and how much was tomato sauce covering the otherwise pristine white linen table cloth in a dramatic red splatter. On second thought, he decide it was better not to inspect too closely.

He glanced at Julia—she had that particularly stoic look on her face which indicated an upset stomach. He gave her a brief supportive smile, then made the sign of the cross in blessing. He noticed a collection of three nervous-looking waiters in a corner doing the same. _Of course, Italians are generally Catholic as well._ "George, will you escort these servers away from the scene and get their particulars? You might need someone to translate for you."

He turned formally to his wife. "What have you, doctor?"

"Well, the cause of death is rather obvious, don't you think?"

William walked around the corpse which was pinned through the back with the metal business-end of a wooden-handled spike, the head of which passed through the victim and buried itself in the table. There was nothing obviously amiss at ground level. He tipped his head back, peering into the dark recesses of the ceiling. This section of the establishment featured a nautical theme: anchors, a jumble of nets and oars, stuffed and mounted fishes, and at least three ships' figureheads. He would need a stronger light to see exactly where the weapon originated, up there in the inky abyss above. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Julia gave him a look. "I will need a saw so I can take a portion of the table with me, since the whole thing will not fit in the morgue wagon and I do not want to extract the weapon here."

"Perhaps you can just cut through the metal shaft?"

She smiled at him for the suggestion. "I will ask the driver for one of my tools." She drew her hands to her hips and scanned the room, then walked a few paces to see the larger spaces beyond, spying a collection of small farm implements and woodworking gadgets. "Or I can pull something off the wall… Constable Higgins?" Julia called. "I may need your assistance…

William approved of her decision to not try to remove the weapon here, considering the mess and the crowd still pressingly close by. He motioned to Constable Burke to start setting up photographic equipment for George to capture the scene prior to the corpse' removal. Whilst he was waiting for George, William continued to study the scene, using his 'daylight in a box' to direct a beam at the ceiling. He was considering asking for photographs of that areas as well, when George re-presented himself, a hunk of crusty Italian bread in his hand.

"Oh Sir. This is delicious," he was rhapsodizing. "Not as good as a baguette, mind you, or a nice brioche but very tasty…" George trailed off under the renewed glare of his detective. He looked down in horror at the number of crumbs on his deep blue uniform tunic, brushing them off quickly. " _Achem_ …the waiters are all relatives of the owners, Joseph and Maria DiNapoli. Their son, Luigi, translated for me. All three set up the room early this morning and were constantly in and out. They has just finished serving the main course when the incident happened. As they were the only ones standing at the time, I was interested in what they saw—all three say no one was fiddling with any of the decorations and everyone was seated. Henry says those four ladies over there are the luncheon organizers, and I discovered that the gentleman standing next to the organizers," he pointed with the last crust of bread in his hand, "was assigned to take photographs. I plan to collect his negatives."

William glance where the constable indicated. "Thank you George. Photographs might indeed be an excellent…." William's eye lighted on a familiar figure and he stopped to stare in surprise.

From the quartet George indicated, a petite, brown-haired woman stepped forward and smiled from beneath a circular-brimmed felt hat. "Detective Murdoch? I wondered if you would be called."

William approached. "Miss Genevieve Latcher. A pleasure to see you again." He extended his hand to greet her with a warm smile, then drew her aside. She came barely to his shoulder…shoes, hair, hat and all. "Miss Latcher, I am surprised to see you here, let alone as one of the hostesses. I thought you were interested in more serious affairs. What happened to your desire to become a professional news photographer?"

Her eyes flashed behind her glasses. "Nothing happened." When William failed to respond, she repeated herself. "Nothing. I have had no progress in my quest. The Toronto papers consider women unfit for the subjects of crime, natural disasters, labour unrest or politics, therefore I was sent to cover the performing arts for the _Gazette_. That is how I became interested in 'Nellie' and subsequently this group of admirers." She drew herself up, refusing to be intimidated or patronized. "Unless the constabulary is interested in women in another role besides Matron…" she cocked a grin, "or coroner, for which I am certainly not qualified, they have not been hiring female photographers."

William kept the amused quirk off his mouth with effort. "What do you know about this?" He gestured to encompass the whole crime scene. Miss Latcher had proven herself before to have a discerning eye, so he was interested in her thoughts.

"Again, nothing I am afraid. My back was towards the scene." She pointed to a table on the other side of the cramped room. "I was sitting with the other hostesses and our guest, Torrance Mahoney. He plays "Tom," one of the cast members who has been with the show from the beginning of the run. Perhaps you should talk with them."

After making introductions, William listened to the ladies' commentary, one after the other.

"At first we thought it was a joke—you know, a put-on from the theatre cast," Mary Brown suggested.

Judith Spark agreed. "Yes. After all, our Nellie is put in danger by all manner of dastardly threats."

"Last year the sound department brought in a recording of a train and played it out of nowhere! So Loud! Gave me a right scare it did!" Sarah Johns tittered.

"Oh Yes!" Genevieve added. "Remember when the prop-master, Mr. Craig, brought in a model of the bomb?"

"Is this usually done to frighten the guests?" William was concerned that the death might have been the results of a theatrical prop failure.

Genevieve shook her head. "Oh, no. One time they brought in Nellie's costumes! It's all just to get us closer to the performers and the performance."

William was not sure he understood the attraction. "Have any of you ladies met the victim before? Her name is Mrs. Edwina Smyth-Featheringstone?"

All four women gasped aloud and looked shocked. _Does everyone know this woman but me?_ he asked himself in annoyance. He also noticed them look at each other in silent communication.

"I see you know the name. How is it as hostesses you did not recognize her?"

Miss Latcher was nudged forward by her friends, reluctantly assuming the mantel of spokeswoman. "Well. _No one_ knows what she looks like. That is the point. She attends performances anonymously. Ostensibly, that way she cannot be influenced one way or the other in her reviews."

"You mean so no one can murder her in her sleep as retribution for one of her ill-informed and scathing columns!" One hostess muttered, getting supportive grumbles from her sisters and an echo of the same from other women in the room.

"She positively enjoyed ruining lives and reputations…" This time Mr. Mahoney chimed in bitterly.

Miss Latcher spoke up. "Detective, if she was scouting us out to help publish a damning review of 'Nellie', well…you have one-hundred suspects just in this room. None of us would allow that to happen, not without consequences!"

William was taken aback at her vehemence, yet her companions were just as outraged at the thought of someone threatening their beloved play. Looking around, it was clear that the rest of the patrons had overheard the exchange. He was about to ask Miss Latcher _exactly_ what she meant by that comment, when his wife approached him.

Julia waited for his full attention. "Well, detective, I believe you have your photographs, and I have found the proper tool to cut through the metal rod." Her face blossomed into a bigger smile. "Miss Latcher. How nice to see you again! Am I to understand this is a theatre appreciation society function you are hostessing?"

"Dr. Ogden, hello. Yes, of a sorts. We are admirers of 'Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model'." Miss Latcher beamed proudly.

Julia acknowledged the enthusiasm. "Retribution you say? I overheard some of your discussion. If the victim is a rather caustic theatre critic who delighted in skewering performances, then it may interest you to know that Divine retribution may have played its part." She turned to William. "I found the frayed remains of an old piece if twine which I believe held the murder weapon to the ceiling. I will let you examine it of course."

"Divine retribution?" William was almost afraid to ask; Miss Latcher and her companions fairly quivered in anticipation of Julia's answer.

"Well, she skewered other people for a living. And now she has been harpooned to death!"

 **-END-**

 **Author's Note: Just a little fluff in anticipation of the February 2018 MM Spaghetti Warehouse Luncheon in Toronto. I have my tickets, yea!** **Ladies: Thank you for hosting the event!** **I borrowed the space for this story (who can ever tell if I got it right or not considering the overstuffed jumble in there, anyways?!)**

 **Dear JH: I hope you don't mind 'your' character showing up again! I love her and could not resist.**

 **Thanx to NR for the 'harpoon' suggestion-you are right it is just funny to say..**

 **Thanx also to IdBeDelighted for feedback-one LOL from you and I'm always good to go-**

 **Dear Reader: if you like it, please review (mine or anyone's writing) or 'follow' the story or 'favourite' the story if you are shy about reviewing. It encourages us to write more for your reading pleasure!**

 **See you soon!** **-rg**


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